Notorious (Rebels of the Ton #1) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,23

put him on edge so? He was a man with a decade’s worth of experience with war, death, and women, but she made him feel like a callow youth.

“What about the wedding?” she asked, jarring him from his uncomfortable musing.

“Ah, yes, the wedding.” Gabriel cleared his throat, which seemed to have filled with his heart and lungs. God. Married. And to a woman who loathed him. Still, men of his class were not expected to limit themselves to one woman for the rest of their lives. In England a man would have one wife, one woman to give him children and comfort him in old age and infirmity. But most of the married men he knew either kept a mistress or conducted affairs. He could always keep Giselle and Maria and no one would look sideways at him—well, no more than they already did.

For some reason Gabriel found the thought of such a dual existence vaguely depressing.

He let his gaze linger over his wife-to-be’s body—a body that would be his in only a few days. Surprisingly, his groin grew heavy at the thought. His physical response was not what he would have expected; after all, bedding a woman who hated him was unlikely to be a satisfactory experience.

“Mr. Marlington?”

He met her gaze. “Hmm?”

“You were saying, about the wedding?”

“My mother and the marquess have offered to host a wedding breakfast for us.”

“That is very kind of them, Mr. Marlington.”

“Perhaps you might call me Gabriel as I am to be your husband in less than two days’ time.”

“Of course . . . Gabriel.”

She did not invite him to do the same, but then Gabriel did not expect it. Miss Drusilla Clare had never made her disdain for him a secret. And now this woman who could barely countenance looking at him or speaking to him would be his wife. If he survived his duel, of course.

Chapter 6

Drusilla discovered that escaping her Aunt Violet—whose health had rallied at the prospect of a wedding, no matter how rushed—her prospective mother-in-law, and Eva was more difficult than escaping Coldbath Fields Prison.

But it was imperative that she get away. The twice-monthly meetings of her charitable group—the Society for the Practical Application of Wollstonecraftian Ideals—were often the highlights of her week, and she hated to miss one. Besides, she needed to tell her small group that she would be the first of their number to violate their own principles and enter the married state. And then she would need to tell them that she’d be leaving town after the Season, something she’d not done since settling into the London house after finishing school.

Drusilla squirmed to think of her friends’ reactions. She’d formed this group almost three years ago, its membership comprising only seven people including her—four women and three men, all of them except one from the merchant class. The last member to join—barely half a year ago—had been a young man from the aristocracy, although only the youngest son of a baronet. Still, it gave them all hope that if one man from the ruling class could see the merit in Wollstonecraft’s writings, there would be others.

As Drusilla hurried along the damp sidewalk, her maid struggling to keep pace, she reminded herself, yet again, that she would be married tomorrow—that she would be Mrs. Gabriel Marlington. She had reminded herself of that fact at least once every five minutes since his proposal, and it still had not stuck.

And then she had needed to remind herself that the morning after her marriage, she might very well be a widow.

Drusilla groaned at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Miss Dru?” Fletcher asked breathlessly, trotting along beside her. “Did you say something?”

“I will want you to wait for me in Hatchards, just as usual.”

Her maid’s silence was most speaking.

“It will only be an hour, Fletcher. There will be plenty of time to get back to the w-wedding preparations.” Even speaking the word was difficult—what would being married to him be like? What would the wedding night be like . . .? She slammed the door shut against that thought: it would come soon enough.

“But Miss Dru, it is only tomorrow and—”

“Fletcher.”

The older woman heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, miss.”

Good. So that was done.

Drusilla dreaded the discussion she was to have with her small group—especially Theo. Although it had never been spoken of openly, it was understood their membership would live up to the beliefs set out in Miss Wollstonecraft’s writings and they would eschew marriage. And now she was the